In Excelsis Gloria
by jadeddiva
Summary: All he can say is “You know, Christmas is my least favorite holiday.” She smiles something wicked and says “All the more reason, then.” Christmas oneshot.


_Author's Note: Mad props to all my four (4!) betas, including mercuito-rane, who helped inspire me to write this Christmas smangst. Enjoy and please review._

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In Excelsis Gloria**

_let all mortal flesh keep silence and with fear and trembling stand_

Remus Lupin does not really like Christmas and he especially does not like Christmas in Grimmauld Place. There are always people milling about, and things to do, and Christmas reinforces some key points of his life that holidays are usually supposed to make one forget: he is alone, and he is poor.

He understands that, technically, he's not alone if he has Sirius but Sirius is damaged after twelve years and a friend's betrayal. Remus has been alone far too long, since his parents died when he was twenty and since all his friends died (for lack of a better description) at twenty-one. The house, its noise and decorations, upsets him in ways that it shouldn't. He smiles meekly when Molly offers him cookies and he spends most of his time in the library, away from the joyful din created by happy people.

Being poor on Christmas has always meant the inability to buy presents for co-workers or, on that rare occasion, a lady he might have been dating for a brief period of time. Sometimes, there's a full moon; if not, he's recovering from the moon that has just passed or that will be arriving shortly. So Christmas, for Remus Lupin, is the most god-awful of holidays and he cannot stomach it but he is trying very hard to for the sake of those around him.

Sirius is grateful, and Dumbledore smiles, his lips seeming to say, "I understand, my friend." And for her part, she seems to understand as well but, really, he doesn't want to think about her.

Nymphadora Tonks, age twenty-four: Auror by occupation and Order Member in her spare time. Everything about her is bright, far too bright and cheerful to be real. She has to be a creation of his mind, the way she smiles at him and talks to him after Order meetings and brings him chocolate after the full moon. He imagines that she looks at him with tenderness, because he'd rather not think it's pity, and he imagines her attention to the details of his life is the result of her Auror training (he _is_ a dangerous werewolf) and it all makes sense. He's gotten to the point that he believes he fabricated her out of thin air, the threads of her body from the shimmering dew, but that's only when he's feeling especially poetic.

If he created her, then she's a marvelous creation indeed, and the thought, like her, makes his head spin.

_ponder nothing earthly minded for with blessing in His hand_

"It's just a kiss," she says, and nervously tucks a strand of short pink hair behind her ear. "It's just a silly tradition." She bites her lip as is her habit and he's never felt more conflicted. It's just a kiss, she says, but he doesn't kiss people on a regular basis – not like her, at least, because she's young and he's fairly sure she's free with kisses and well, he's not.

Sirius, because he is both housebound and bored, has taken to decorating every inch of his family home with garish Christmas decorations. Shiny silver tinsel hangs like icicles from the corners of portraits, and red and green garlands are wrapped around banisters. He has strung Christmas lights, charmed because there is no electricity in the House of Black (for wizards do not need silly Muggle conveniences) to blink on and off, in the windows. There is a Christmas tree decorated with candy canes and oranges and ornaments Tonks picked up that depict famous Muggle cartoon characters. Sirius himself parades around with an elf's hat on his head. And then there is the mistletoe, originally placed by Sirius so that both Emmeline and Hestia will have to kiss him. Said mistletoe is now perched over the heads of Tonks and Remus, definitely not the intended targets.

He is at a crossroads, for if he gives in, things will change that do and do not involve her and her role in the world he has carefully constructed, a world where she shouldn't have a role, not really. And if he doesn't, while it is the safer option…it's all so confusing. He doesn't think of himself as a romantic, nor does he think of himself as attractive or desirable, but it has been a long time since someone kissed him and this may upset the boring balance of his life in a way he is surprised he wants.

"You're right," he replies and leans down, brushing his lips against hers softly because if something goes wrong, at least he can blame himself for initiating the act. She increases the pressure, her small lips sucking gently on his lower one. She tastes like fruity lip-gloss, sugary and sweet, and the small movement of her lips against his will be his undoing if he keeps this up. So he pulls back, slowly, and she flutters her eyelids and smiles, slow and unconsciously reaches up but she's already tucked her hair behind her ear.

He smiles and nods, turning to walk up the stairs. He can still taste her lip-gloss, and somehow it's the ultimate punishment in ways he can't even imagine.

_Christ our God to earth descendeth our full homage to demand._

"You look distracted," Sirius says and Remus shrugs. It has been four days since the Mistletoe Incident, and in truth he has been distracted because that one kiss has crept its way into his mind and has become lodged in the back, refusing to move.

"Tonks said she cornered you under the mistletoe," Sirius adds, pouring himself a cup of tea.

"She did," Remus responds, though 'cornered' is not a word he wants to associate with the kiss. There are things he can associate, concepts like 'tradition' and 'obligation' but the word 'cornered' would imply something like a pursuit or a chase, and Remus Lupin knows of no good reason why she would use that word with regards to him. He has never been pursued or chased and it is easier to live knowing that she allowed him to kiss her because of tradition than it is to let his imagination run wild again.

He decides that Sirius has misconstrued her words, that she probably meant something else. But he does not miss the glint in Sirius' eyes, the look that says he knows something is up, regardless of what it is, and that he will be watching and waiting.

Remus picks up his teacup and settles into the library to work. When he goes to sleep that night, he remembers what she tasted like, now five days ago, and curses himself for being so absolutely pathetic.

_rank on rank the host of heaven spreads its vanguard on the way_

Sirius decides that they should have carols one night and, not wanting to hurt his feelings, several members of the Order agree. What starts as caroling becomes a raucous mess as it's the younger members who agree to come; Bill Weasley bringing Fleur Delacoeur with him because he wants her in the Order, and Hestia and Emmeline and Tonks and Kingsley and Remus, who is not so much young as there by default. They drink firewhiskey from plastic glasses that Hestia brought, and Moody stops by to find Sirius on top of a table, gyrating while singing some song about three ships that Remus never liked.

He joins in occasionally, but his voice is hoarse and mostly he just listens to her. Her voice is high and light, and very pretty; he imagines it would be very lovely if properly trained. As it stands, it is still lovely.

"You sing very well," he tells her afterwards, and she giggles into her hand.

"Thank you," she replies. "I love Christmas carols. I think I like the hymns more. My grandparents used to take me to Christmas Eve service when I was a child and that was always…very magical." She smiles again and he nods, understanding that despite the scorn Wizards place on the Muggle world, there are some things that are beyond amazing, beyond magic really, and Muggle music is one of those things.

He wants to say more, but realizes that whatever he says will have more meaning to him than to her, and so he smiles and nods, afraid of looking at her. She looks so pretty right now, her hair long and in loose curls and ridiculously pink and there is something inside his chest, a tightening that confuses him whenever he looks at her.

"You aren't so bad yourself," she remarks, and he laughs.

"Are you kidding?" he asks, eyes meeting hers. "I'm dreadful." She looks surprised for one split second, and he's so unsure and he drops his eyes and says, "At least, that's what James always said." He feels so ridiculous, because _she was just being nice_ and he shouldn't act like a schoolboy with a crush when he's really a thirty-six year old werewolf with no hope.

"You're better than Sirius," she says truthfully, tucking her hair behind her ear and she's embarrassed, he can tell, and he feels awful because he can't even have normal conversations anymore. But she's right – Sirius is gone, bellowing Christmas carols and chasing Kreacher around the house with a fire poker.

"You're right. Well, I'll be going. Goodnight," he says, and in his peripheral vision her mouth opens and shuts like a fish, like she wants to be polite and tell him that he doesn't have to leave, but comes to her senses quickly enough.

In his room, he replays the scene over and over again and realizes that maybe if he had been wittier, if he had said something else, complimented her on her hair or something other than her voice, it would have been short and painless. But he had to be truthful. He realizes this would be so much easier if she wasn't so very pretty and so very _nice_ to him, if she treated him like other Members did, kept him at arms length because he of what he is.

He can deal with young children, who don't know, because he loves to teach. He can deal with Sirius, and Molly Weasley but he cannot deal with Nymphadora Tonks – probably because she is the first person he has felt anything for in close to ten years. In some ideal world, where he had money and social graces and no scars and no monthly curse, he'd make an honest go at her. But as it stands, he is a pathetic excuse for a man, and so he sits in his room, willing all of this to go away but it won't, he knows, as long as she is around.

_as the Light of light descendeth from the realms of endless day_

She has made tea for him, and brushes her fingertips along his arm when she brings it to him in the parlor. He has taken up sitting in front of the tree and working, because he is nostalgic about Christmas trees – it was one of the few times he felt normal as a child, and he liked that. Her fingers burn a trail and he shivers involuntarily, partly in lust and partly in jubilation over her touch and then immediately wants to vomit in self-hatred.

"The tree's lovely, isn't it?" she asks, and it takes him a moment to realize she's asking him.

"Quite," he says, and then notices that she's placing a few presents around the tree. There are already gifts there, from Order members to each other and from the Weasleys to Harry and Hermione, who will, no doubt, be spending Christmas here. Remus has seen his name on a few; several from Sirius who has threatened him with new clothes, and one from the Weasleys, and Dumbledore, and McGonagall, and an oddly shaped and terribly wrapped one from Dung which may or may not be legal (_should never talk when drunk, _he reminds himself). Because he's not paying rent, he's able to reciprocate in small amounts, so he pays careful attention to the gifts but he's surprised when she slips one with his name underneath the tree. He never thought she'd buy him anything, but he doesn't know what he would get her. He pretends not to pay attention, and she says a few more words to him then leaves, late for her shift.

The next day he goes out and walks along the streets of Muggle London. He's got a few pounds and wants to get her something brilliant and bright like she is, but nothing that says how much she means to him. He wants to say how much she brightens up his miserable life, but knowing that she's probably giving him something like slippers or gloves or a hat, because that's what you get friends, he's at a loss. Gloves are too impersonal, and he can't buy her clothes or music because he doesn't know where to begin, so he ends up with a box of chocolate-covered cherry cordials because that's the type of lip-gloss she uses.

As he walks by the carolers on his way home, he thinks it's disgusting that he knows what she tastes like, and questions the buying of a smaller box for himself. The carolers are singing _Gloria in Excelsis Deo_ and he is very, very cold.

_that the powers of hell may vanish as the darkness clears away_

"Did it ever occur to you," Sirius says one day, "that she _likes_ you?"

He doesn't answer with "Who" but "What?" which is the wrong response because it angles him right into Sirius' ploy. "What are you talking about?"

"She likes you," Sirius repeats. "It's obvious. She's mooning over Moony."

"That's impossible, Sirius," he says. "I'm not the type of man who women pay attention to."

"Obviously, she does."

"Can't you lay off it, Sirius, just for a minute!" Remus shouts. "This isn't funny, not one bit. It's giving me false hope, and there's nothing more terrible than false hope."

"Moony, I-"

"No, _Padfoot_, no. You don't know what it's like – you never knew what it was like, being me." He standing now, full of nervous energy and spite and twenty years of anxiety all ready to explode. He's hating himself for letting Sirius get to him like he always does, and he knows that he doesn't have to tell Sirius what's bothering him, that Sirius knows him well enough to know that it's a combination of everything he has endured and Sirius sits and watches as Remus takes a deep breath. Despite knowing what he goes through, Sirius is smart enough to know he doesn't understand what Remus' life is like, because knowing and living are completely different, so he keeps his mouth shut for a change.

"And I don't want to talk about her. Because I just can't. Because I can't even imagine why she would even look twice at me, and if you continue to allude to such things, I – it'll never happen, because no one ever looked at me and thought I was anything, and no one ever will. So if you'll excuse me, Sirius, I'd like to live out my numbered days in pitiful loneliness."

"You like her," Sirius says quietly. "Merlin, Moony – "

"Please, Sirius, you've done enough to upset me today."

"Will you get a hold of yourself? What is with this disgusting self-pity? 'Oh, I'm a werewolf, there's no way some slightly irrational but altogether brilliant girl might think I'm brilliant, too.' Muggle Christ, Remus, if I had known you were like this I'd have broken out of Azkaban years ago to beat some sense into you."

Remus bristles at Sirius' words, and wants to tell him that this is all too much so soon after a transformation but chooses the high road instead. He picks up his mug of tea and leaves the kitchen.

She is standing outside the door, eyes wide and dark blue and hands covering her mouth. He wants to die, right then and there, because she has overheard the entire conversation and now she knows that he feels something inappropriate for her. He can already see how she's closing herself off to him, because lycanthropes are disgusting and let's say one of them were to have feelings for a witch, that's wrong in so many ways.

"I'm…I'm just sorry," he says. He tries to move past her, but she places a hand on his arm and he braces himself for the hex.

Instead, she takes a step closer and says, "And what if she looked at you twice and did not think you average but rather attractive in your own way? And what if she thought you were something, not just anything? Could you imagine that?"

He can't breathe; his heart is in his throat.

She takes a step forward, and softly places her lips against his. _Definitely cherry_, he thinks, though he's not quite sure what he should be doing. Her lips are insistent, and he's finding himself prey to the rhythm she has set. One of her hand rests on his hip, the other holds the mug in his left hand, in case he drops it or something equally predictable, given the current situation.

She takes a step back, and Remus is scared to open his eyes but he does, slowly. She is smiling.

"T'wasn't so bad, was it?" she asks. Her hand is still on the mug, fingers brushing his knuckles.

_at His feet the six-winged seraph, cherubim with sleepless eye_

The days following Arthur Weasley's attack lead to double-shifts and brushes of hands and bodies in dark corners. They steal a few moments whenever the two of them are in headquarters, usually hiding in a broom closet or the library. Heated kisses are placed on fingers lips cheeks and necks, behind ears and on foreheads and noses. Hands travel over fully-clothed bodies, groping to get used to the other.

"Well," Remus says, "this is a good way to feel you're alive." He's feeling especially pathetic, and sure she's just using this as something else, something he doesn't really want to think about but something he's bothered by nonetheless.

She turns, and faces him in the dim hallway, raising her eyebrows.

"Pathetic was out last summer," she says. "You're just lucky you're still attractive in it." She kisses his cheek and whispers that he really needs to stop thinking so much, and then she's out the door, back to work.

Later that night, when she returns to find him staring at the fire, listening to some ridiculous woman warbling ridiculous songs over the wireless. She sits herself down in his lap and tells him that he has to try, very hard if necessary, to believe that she wants him and likes him a lot and this isn't about wanting to feel alive, it's about being with someone you care about enough to want to snog him in the closets.

He can't protest as her lips trail across his jaw; he's just very thankful that she's telling him not to think, because it's near-impossible around her. At least, until Tonks starts singing _Oh, come and stir my cauldron, And if you do it right I'll boil you up some hot strong love to keep you warm tonight _which causes him to tickle her and she collapses into a giggling fit on his lap. He's smiling, and the wireless keeps warbling for all it's worth.

_veil their faces to the presence, as with ceaseless voice they cry_

It is Christmas Eve, and all the children and Sirius and perhaps a House-elf, hopefully, are nestled snug in their beds - all, save Remus Lupin but as he is not a child or Sirius, he gathers that it's fine. Instead, he is sitting on the floor, staring at the fire and drinking tea, resting the back of his head on the sofa behind him.

He has been thinking, because Tonks is at work and will be late and while it's been seven days since they started whatever it is they have started, he's still trying to sort it all out. It's hard to overcome lingering feelings of self-hatred, even harder when someone you swear you've carved out of daydreams feels like she needs to teach you the opposite with kisses and taking sips out of your mug and sly glances during Order meetings and long, drawn-out conversations until the late hours of the night.

It's sad that he had to wait until he was so old to learn what _this_ felt like (because he's treading on _this_, he really is) but he's glad that he'll get a chance at it, which poor Snivellus won't because he's so bloody unlikable. That thought appeases his ego.

The door opens, and she tiptoes in, crawling over the chair and only stubbing her toe once. She lays down on the couch, her hands touching the back of his head as they look into the fire.

"How was work?" he asks, as her fingers thread their way through his hair.

"Bloody awful. I'm on-call tomorrow, hope I don't have to do anything," she says. "Your hair's so bloody soft, I love it. It's like petting a dog or something."

"Ta," he says over his shoulder, smiling just a bit because she always says the most ridiculous things – or, rather, the rate of ridiculous sayings has increased exponentially in the past week – and he can't help but smile. There's something about her words that always made him smile, because they're light and happy and he likes that about her.

"You know what I mean," she says, curling her body so that her head lays against his. "You're warm. Been here long?"

"Just thinking."

"Thinking? I thought we agreed to keep that in moderation, love," she says softly, her words a puff of air on his nose.

"True, but what if I'm thinking about you?" he asks, turning his head just so their noses touch.

"That's better." He can feel rather than see the smile on her face, and then her lips touch his softly, their movements slow and easy. He reaches up a hand to brush against her jaw, to touch some part of her in addition to her lips.

She sighs when their kiss is done, exhaling, "What were you thinking about?"

"Christmas trees," he says, kissing her again. "I like them, because my mother used to make a big deal about Christmas, and we didn't have much money for decorations, but we always had a tree, strung with popcorn and oranges and it was lovely. And that's what I always liked about Christmas, the tree."

"I like the gifts," she says. "Giving and receiving. Thank you for the cordials."

"You were supposed to wait until Christmas," he teases.

"Mmm," she hums. "Couldn't wait. I smelled chocolate a mile away."

"Good, weren't they?" he asks, feeling awkward for buying himself some.

"Yes," she admits. "How did you know I liked cherries?"

"You taste like cherries," he says, and she laughs.

"You taste like Remus, and I think that's better than cherries," she says.

She slips off the sofa and into his lap, straddling his hips with her knees. Her elbows rest on his shoulders, fingers stroking the hair at the nape of his neck. Their foreheads press together as their breathing slows and one begins to match the other. She smells so good so close, but then again she always does.

"Mmmm," she says, brushing kisses against his cheeks, "I'm glad you agree. I thought it would take ages, really, to get you to notice me let alone get you to kiss me." She leans back and her eyes widen. "You have to open your present!"

And she reaches behind them, groping until she finds something and hands it to him. It is a rectangular box, wrapped in garish paper with candy canes all over it. He can't help but laugh because it's so _her_ and when he opens it he's surprised to find that the package is not rectangular but rather very flat and square. There are records, old and musty with the corners bent but they're records, and they're of Christmas hymns and choral pieces which, as he glances over the track lists, he is surprised to realize he likes.

"Charmed it, so you wouldn't know what it was. I thought you'd like that better than a silly pair of gloves," she says, blushing just a bit because Remus doesn't like people spending money on him, and each of these records was hand-picked by her, and really, that means a lot.

"This is a wonderful present," he says with a smile, putting the records on the couch and pulling her back into his lap to kiss her. She arches her hips in an effort to get closer to him but really it's causing blood to rush south into more interesting places. _Oh_ he thinks _this isn't that bad, really_. He should feel uncomfortable but he's too wrapped up in exploring how the small of her back feels underneath her jumper. He's learning that the distance from the top of her jeans to bra is the spread of his fingers, and that's intriguing indeed.

"Remus," she says, breaking the kiss and hooking a finger through his belt loop. She glances up, and bites her lip. She is nervous.

"Oh," he says.

"Are you…okay with this?" she asks softly, _this _being a step they haven't taken yet, one that he wouldn't mind and one that she's initiating, which is really hot.

"For the most part…I just…I'm not particularly attractive and I'm covered in scars, see, and – "

She laughs and places a kiss on his lips while she presses her body down and forward and _oh._ Her hips roll and he's lost for what seems like ages.

"Are you sure?" he asks, hands cupping her face and thumbs trailing lightly across her cheekbones. She nods her head.

"Very sure. Would this be rushing things? I mean, no offense but it's Christmas and somehow the thought of _this_ right here and now is incredibly hot," she says in a rush. He notices that her cheeks are flushed and she's rubbing the nape of his neck with her fingers.

He's never thought about that sort of thing before, but he can see the attraction of firelight and the glow of thousands of tiny bulbs on the tree itself. Atmosphere, indeed.

He thinks of a million problems – they're in a parlor which is public and there's the Weasley family plus Sirius and Harry in the house and that in itself is a bit disconcerting. But at the moment, he's got a beautiful woman he cares for in his arms, wanting him, scars and grumpiness and all, and all he can say is, "You know, Christmas is my least favorite holiday."

She smiles something wicked and says, "All the more reason, then." She reaches into her back pocket and waves her hand at the door, locking it to keep prying eyes out. Before the wand reaches the floor, he's kissing her neck, inhaling the cherry-blossom-scented lotion she uses and thinking (not for the first time) that if heaven smelled like anything, it would smell of cherries.

For her part, she's working her hands down his chest, unbuttoning his cardigan and breaking the kiss to mutter, "I never thought cardigans would be sexy but goddamn, Remus Lupin, you – " and kissing him again as she starts to work on his button-down shirt.

Her jumper is oversized and they slip it over her head with lighting-fast speed and they look at each other. She's clad in only a bra, bright red contrasting against the paleness of her skin and he's wearing a worn tee which her fingers are under before he can exhale. He brushes his fingers against her shoulder, kissing the skin near her bra strap before lowering it. He feels like this can be considered something like falling off a bicycle – he hasn't forgotten how this works, but what's fun and sending courses of white hot longing through him is how he's doing this to her, and how her breath catches when he brushes the fingers of his free hand against her breast, teasing her nipple through her bra.

His breath catches when she trails a finger up the seam of his pants, over his erection. She laughs, low and devilish, the other bra strap dropping down her arm. She looks more like a nymph than ever, bright pink hair sticking up in all directions and blue eyes flashing with something that could be wantonness, and based on how she's fingering his belt, probably is.

His belt is off, and he's laying her back on the floor, which thankfully is covered with a thick rug they found in the attic. Reflections from the fire and Christmas tree cast a warm, multi-hued glow over her pale torso, and as he presses kisses down her stomach while heading towards her jeans, he notices a long scar that stretched from below the waist of her pants to the tip of her top rib.

"See? I have scars too," she says.

"But you can get rid of them."

"Nah, I think they make me look brave," she says, with a smile. "It would be boring if our skin were smooth like a statue's. I much prefer the little imperfections."

He kisses her, and her hands make fast work of the tee, pulling it over his head and running her careful fingers over his back, kneading the muscles. He unzips her fly and they both ease her pants over her hips and she's playing with this fly so he sits up. He's aware of how his scars must pick up the light, but her eyes do not show disgust and she does not look away. Instead she sits up, too, running her fingers over the pale ribbons and pressing delicate kisses to them.

In that moment, he feels love in ways that he thinks he shouldn't but can't help, because he can't help how she makes him feel and he wants her to feel the same way.

He lowers her back down, and then presses kisses along her belly button and below it, down to her panties and down. She fidgets as his fingers find the elastic and pull it down, then they find her and she gasps.

"What…ah…" she exhales.

"I may not last that long, and I want you to enjoy this." He's self-conscious because it's been so long and he's so hard, so incredibly ready for this but he wants her to know she's everything he always wanted and more.

"I assure you, R.J. Lupin, I will enjoy this regardless." And then her eyes flutter closed, and she inhales and exhales in short exclamations, fingers threading through his hair until she _pulls _and he looks up. He doesn't need words to tell him what she wants as he slides up her body. As she sits up and works at his fly, he unclasps her bra and places kisses in the valley between her breasts.

She is gorgeous, absolutely beautiful, lying on the floor as she hooks a leg around his hip and pulls him closer. And then, she's warm _oh so fucking warm_ around him. Her back arches, her eyes fall shut, and he kisses the corners of her smile.

"God," she says, her eyes fluttering open as they lie there_ together_. And he agrees, silently, that invoking a deity would be the only way to describe the extraordinary way this feels, the way they fit, the way that when he starts to rock forward her hips arch to meet him, the way she whispers profanities and prayers, the way that his heart feels full in ways it hasn't ever.

When she arches and he shuts his eyes in ecstasy, muttering "Dora" as she sighs "Remus," it's perfect.

Afterwards, she tucks her head into his shoulder and he's forced to gather up the clothes and then, wrapping one of Molly's knit throws around them, carry it all to his room which is one floor up and empty. They collapse into bed, her head still buried in his neck.

_Alleluia, Alleluia_

He props himself up on his arm, and looks down as she sleeps on her back. She is beautiful, all bright hair and the now-obvious bite marks that he left, a trail down her neck and disappearing under the covers.

"Good morning," she says. She arches her back, breasts pressing against the thin sheets, and smiles. "Sleep well?

"Yes, thank you." He is nervous, because this is the first time in a long time that he can remember waking next to someone. "You?"

"Very well, thank you." The smile widens, and he's lost.

"I'm not sure what to say now," he says. "Because if I said something like 'That was nice' that might seem too brash, and if I said something else, something like, 'Well, how about breakfast.' That could be taken many ways and, well…"

"I'm a big fan of actions over words," she says. "So if I turn my body like this –" she turns to her side, mirroring his position, "It is safe to assume that I enjoyed last night, and would like to linger in bed a while. And if I do this –" she hooks her leg over his, "then it's safe to assume I'd like this to be repeated, perhaps on a daily basis and perhaps for a long time."

"And if I do this," he says, hand tracing the curve of her calf and up to her thigh, where it remains, "I would have to second the notion."

"And maybe we could do this in _our_ bed, sometime in the future," she says shyly, "and after we come home from things that could be considered dates, and you could refer to me as your significant other and – "

"Are you blushing, Ms. Tonks?" Remus asks, their faces inches apart. Her words are the most arousing things he has ever heard, because not only does she not mind the fact that he's old and may very well be dangerous – nevermind the fact he's poor – she wants him. For extended periods of time and for an extended period of time. And that is absolutely maddening.

"Maybe – but I much rather prefer 'Dora'," she says. "Especially when it's coming from your lips in the throes of passion."

He laughs, and she closes the gap between them with her lips. Marvelous, indeed.

_Alleluia, Lord Most High!_

_Christmas 1996_

_They were all supposed to be listening to a Christmas broadcast by Mrs. Weasley's favorite signer, Celestina Warbeck, whose voice was warbling out of the large wooden wireless set. Fleur, who seemed to find Celestina very dull, was talking loudly in the corner; and a scowling Mrs. Weasley kept pointing her wand at the volume control, so that Celestina grew louder and louder. Under cover of a particularly jazzy number called "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love," Fred and George started a game of Exploding Snap with Ginny. Ron kept shooting Bill and Fleur covert looks, as though hoping to pick up tips. Meanwhile, Remus Lupin, who was thinner and more ragged-looking than ever, was sitting beside the fire, staring into its depths as though he could not hear Celestina's voice._

_Oh, come and stir my cauldron,_

_And if you do it right_

_I'll boil you up some hot strong love_

_To keep you warm tonight._


End file.
